“Copy that,” came Scott Coleman’s immediate response. “Do you want us to move in?”
“Have you been able to determine the strength of the Russians?”
“Somewhere between four and four thousand. You could lose New York City in this jungle.”
“Then negative. Stay put.”
“Mitch . . .” Claudia’s voice broke in on the satellite link from Coleman’s Baltimore headquarters. “Confirm you said the downstairs storage room.”
“Affirmative.”
“There are no doors leading outside from that room and the windows are heavy glass block. You’ll get cornered in there.”
The CIA had information on the house in case Azarov ever needed to be dealt with, but it had been compiled only from architectural drawings and a single drone flyover. Better than nothing, but not exactly authoritative.
“It’s Grisha’s house and he says we’re going down.”
“Are you sure? He could be leading you into a trap. Sacrificing you so he can escape.”
“Maybe. Scott can you give us any cover from where you are?”
“The men on the perimeter are staying out of sight and going for position on you.”
“Can you at least make some noise? Get them to think twice?”
“Oh hell yeah.”
“Do it.”
The sound of automatic fire erupted outside, hitting the concrete walls and the dirt surrounding the structure. Rapp ran for the stairs with Cara on his shoulder while Azarov stayed to his left, shielding her with his body. A few shots came their way, but none got close as the incursion team was forced to focus on the fact that multiple unidentified shooters had flanked them.
They made it down a dangerously open staircase and into a hallway that came to a T with a bedroom to the right and the storage room to the left. As usual, Claudia was right—glass block and thick stucco had replaced floor to ceiling windows in this part of the house. The jungle and steep slopes would have been difficult to secure and Azarov had forgone the spectacular views in favor of defense.
They broke left into a relatively small room stacked with surfboards, kayaks, and other athletic equipment. Azarov pushed an unusually thick door closed and then tapped something into his phone. The sound of mechanical deadbolts sliding home cut through eerie silence.
Rapp lay Cara down next to the wall and checked for a pulse again. Getting out of there would be a hell of a lot easier without the extra weight, but he couldn’t help rooting for her. There weren’t many young surf instructors who would charge a heavily armed man in body armor. Definitely a keeper.
“Is she . . .” Azarov started.
“She’s alive. But not for much longer if we let ourselves get pinned down here. I don’t care how thick you made these walls, those assholes are ready for it.”
Azarov nodded and moved to a mattress leaned up against the wall. “Help me.”
It was heavy as hell, but they managed to pull the bottom back a couple of feet, creating a space that the three of them could just fit into. Automatic fire began to thud against the door as they sandwiched themselves inside.
Azarov began tapping commands into his phone again and Rapp grabbed his wrist, suspecting what was coming next. He’d had a similar escape route built into his new house.
“Do we have anyone near the southeast walls?” he said into his throat mike.
“That’s a negative, Mitch. Maslick is in the best position to get there, probably six minutes out. Do you need him?”
“No. Stay clear.”
He released the Russian’s wrist and nodded. Azarov finished entering his password and they pulled the mattress closer, pressing their backs against the wall.
The charges had been expertly placed and the majority of the blast’s energy went outward, sending shattered concrete and glass block spraying into the jungle. There was barely enough residual energy to shove the mattress back against them. Rapp slipped out immediately, making his way through the thick, chemical-scented dust to the hole leading outside. His eyes weren’t dark adapted, but he was able to make out a single man down at the edge of the jungle. As his vision sharpened, he could see that his body armor and the surrounding trees were full of nails and deck screws that must have been packed around the charges. You had to hand it to Azarov. The shrapnel was a nice touch.
“This way,” the Russian said, handing Rapp the MP7 as he moved past with Cara in his arms. Rapp followed, watching their flank as they penetrated into the foliage. Time was against them. Their path was clear for the moment, but blowing the side off your house wasn’t exactly subtle. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the route they were using to escape.
By the time Rapp caught up, Azarov was crouched in the vegetation next to a pickup truck toolbox dragged from a trapdoor in the ground. He’d already cut through Cara’s shirt and was fully focused on bandaging the wound in her back.
“Are you still strong enough to carry her or should I?” Rapp said, dropping to his knees next to the box, digging through its contents.
“Strong enough. I’ll take her.”
It was the expected answer, but Rapp had wanted to give him the option. The light from the fire starting to consume the house penetrated the jungle with enough strength to allow him to sort through the gear—boots, camo, a full CamelBak, a Beretta ARX100 assault rifle, spare mags.
Rapp slipped the CamelBak and Beretta over his shoulders, leaving the MP7 and clothing for Azarov. Near the bottom he found a surprise. A Russian RPG-7 rocket propelled grenade launcher. The longer he knew Azarov, the more he liked where his head was at.
“Where, to?” Rapp said, hanging the launcher over the top of the CamelBak.
“Straight down the slope,” the Russian responded. “It funnels into a canyon of sorts between the mountains. Water runs through it during the rainy season, so the bottom isn’t as densely vegetated. You can move quickly. Take the night-vision gear in the box. I won’t be able to move as fast and we have nearly a full moon. I’m familiar enough with the trail to navigate by that.”
“How far and where’s it come out?”
“About four kilometers to a dirt road that runs parallel to the ocean. That road is about a kilometer northeast of the town.”
Rapp activated his throat mike. “Our rendezvous point is the junction of the canyon behind Grisha’s house and a dirt road that runs parallel to the ocean about one klick northeast of Dominical. You’re going to have to find a place to set the chopper down.”
“We don’t know what the Russians’ capabilities are,” came Claudia’s reply. “A local SUV might be safer.”
“Negative. Cara’s injured and we need to get her medical attention ASAP. Bring the chopper in low and fast. Hopefully, the skids won’t even have to touch the ground.”
“Copy. How long?”
Rapp looked over at Azarov, who was pulling on his fatigues next to Cara’s still body. “Time?”
“I’ve never trained on this route with so much added weight,” he said, falling silent as he did the calculations in his head. “Fifty-eight minutes.”
“One hour,” Rapp said into his radio.
“Copy that. Fred’ll be there.”
“Scott,” Rapp said. “Get a couple of men on that chopper and send the rest of them ahead to the hospital in Quepos.”
“On it.”
Rapp tossed Azarov his radio and the Russian put it on before scooping Cara off the ground. Before he started out, though, he grabbed Rapp’s forearm. “If they come after us, it’s likely that one of the chasers will be Nikita Pushkin, the man who replaced me. Don’t play with him, Mitch. Kill him.”
CHAPTER 5
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
THE semitruck fishtailed as it climbed the muddy road, intensifying Maxim Krupin’s nausea. His vision was clear, though. As was his mind. He hadn’t had an episode in three days, which he’d come to see as a mixed blessing. A welcome respite, but also a harbinger of things to come.